


Tits were once a source of fun and games at home

by anyakindheart



Series: Эти боги вполне обжигают горшки [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, PWP, Titfuck, and so was i, canonverse, kinda porn with feelings?, lots of thirst, they're horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:34:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26695342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anyakindheart/pseuds/anyakindheart
Summary: So at first Opal grabs them, a handful in each of his palms. The weight they possess doesn't grant him just a texture: what he feels under his hands is shaped more like a grace, like a whole-ass blessing, if you will. Has he ever been a 'breast man'? Fuck if he knows. He's never even been particularly fixed on the way human bodies are built, it was always quite irrelevant, but this case, this one right here? If he were able to die the way mortals do, cold and soily and irreversibly, he would've been so very eager to let his bones rest under the tremendous hill that is his lover's beautiful body.
Relationships: Мгелико/Опал | Mgeliko/Opal
Series: Эти боги вполне обжигают горшки [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824451





	Tits were once a source of fun and games at home

**Author's Note:**

> the title is taken from the song "Tits" by Sparks because this was written solely to give my friend's OC's boobs the praise that they deserve :^)   
> these characters belong to Olya Cwnwaite and this fic is, as usual, a gift for her. you can find some info about these lads on Olya's twitter:   
> https://twitter.com/cwnwaite;  
> https://twitter.com/feralcwn/status/1259877284607078400

To tell the truth, there is no particular reason why Opal suggests they play that game of dice after the bathhouse. It’s a primitive game: there’s a pair of dice (two wooden pieces with dot markings engraved on their sides), they throw the dice twelve times each, and whoever ends up with a bigger sum can make a wish. This starts out of unadulterated boredom and ends up with pure luck when Opal strikes almost twice as much as Mgeliko does. And as a man of his word, Mgeliko can go pale and tense all he likes, but he actually lets Opal straddle his hips and then do the thing at least one of them has been dreaming of for months: touch his breasts. 

So at first Opal grabs them, a handful in each of his palms. The weight they possess doesn't grant him just a texture: what he feels under his hands is shaped more like a grace, like a whole-ass blessing, if you will. Has he ever been a 'breast man'? Fuck if he knows. He's never even been particularly fixed on the way human bodies are built, it was always quite irrelevant, but this case, this one right here? If he were able to die the way mortals do, cold and soily and irreversibly, he would've been so very eager to let his bones rest under the tremendous hill that is his lover's beautiful body.

"Gorgeous," he whispers, more to himself than for the sake of a foreplay conversation, before pressing his face against the narrow alcove between Mgeliko's breasts. The skin is slick with sweat in there, smelling musky and warm. Opal licks a long upward strip, then touches the hollow point of two collarbones meeting each other with just the rim of his upper teeth. His palms wander in broadening circles, fingers running through thick black hair all over Mgeliko's chest. It really is an impressive amount of hair, tight black coils sitting close next to each other like knots on a tangled-up fishing net, like real fur on a soft animal belly.

There surely are nipples, Opal thinks, hidden somewhere in this luscious black hair, as he goes on a devoted quest of finding them by touch. They happen to be small and almost flat, sitting tenderly in the center of large brown-colored areolae. Here, Opal stops nibbling Mgeliko's neck and takes a moment to lick the finger pads on both of his thumbs simultaneously before pressing them into Mgeliko's nipples. The tips of his fingers are surely able to feel more nuances in the texture. Such delicate, sensitive, vulnerable skin, hairless, naked, so sweet to touch. This time not his body but his mind feels like it’s going up in flames, bruised, disoriented, combustible and so, so turned on. Yes, he thinks then, surely fingers are great and all, but in his mind nothing really comes close to the idea of tasting Mgeliko’s nipples with his tongue. The mere thought of it almost makes Opal purr; his mind shows him fleeting images of foretaste, gives him some borrowed sensations. He recoils, slowly and snake-like, and lowers his face, tracing shambolic patterns on Mgeliko’s chest with the very tip of his nose. 

An extremely sharp intake of breath is what gets his attention. Has he gone too far? Opal lifts his gaze to study his lover’s face, and what he finds there makes him feel quite perplexed. He’s pretty used to the expression Mgeliko usually wears whenever they get physical: it’s stoic and closed, extremely collected, as if the very state of being kissed requires some complicated thought process of him. Every time Opal’s mouth gets close enough to his, Mgeliko shuts his eyes abruptly, as if on command, and opens them back when the kiss breaks. He’s never worn the face of someone who actually enjoys the process, but at the same time he’s never objected to Opal touching him, kissing him, teasing him, jerking him off. 

Opal has seen this particular emotion just enough times to get accustomed to it, so this time, when he spots something entirely different in Mgeliko’s expression, it catches him off guard immediately. His whole face looks fallen open, confused, flustered. Rich blush has spread all the way from the line of his eyebrows down to the wet comma of his philtrum. His jaw looks tense on one side and slack on the other, mouth askew and slightly open, dark tongue rearing just behind the row of his lower teeth. His eyes are black and glossed. For the first time in the history of their wild affairs he looks utterly, shamelessly aroused. 

“Oh, so I guess I’m not the only one enjoying this after all?” Opal teases; he can’t help himself. 

He expects a closed silence, a pause just long enough to emphasize Mgeliko’s intent to ignore any comments of that sort, but what he gets instead is Mgeliko lowering his head, chin almost pressing into his breastbone, and mumbling something, way too softly for Opal to make out any of that. 

“What was that?” he asks, but there’s no response. He can hear the way Mgeliko’s breaths draw in and out, now significantly faster and more frantic than a couple of moments ago. Humming a short curious note, Opal lets go of Mgeliko’s breasts and slides his hands down his lover’s abdomen. He leaves his palms resting on Mgeliko’s loins, rubbing and pressing into them just a little. There are muscles coming to life under his touch. That surely feels exciting, to say the least. 

Having gained some extra time to reflect on everything that he’s just witnessed, Opal tries to give it all a good thought. 

To say the least, he’s had his share of experience in touching human bodies. Most of them, he knows, respond eagerly to groin touches, leg touches, shoulder touches, hand touches, and Opal can almost certainly remember a human girl he once bedded with who was ecstatic when he rubbed her back dimples with his thumbs. It all depends on which parts of their bodies are most tender, though it does feel like he can recall some sort of a pattern: women with sensitive breasts, men with sensitive groins. It very well may be that his current lover also has extremely sensitive breasts. The question is: why does he look so surprised about it?

He tries just this one little thing: slides his hands back up, thumbs pressing firmly into natural muscle folds between Mgeliko’s breasts and the plain of his ribcage and the rest of his fingers brushing fan-like against his nipples. 

It all kind of clicks into place when Mgeliko’s breath hitches, dry and high up in his throat. Opal studies him, suddenly dizzy with his own boiling arousal. 

“You’re not used to this, are you?” he asks, slowly and carefully.

“To what exactly?” Mgeliko says. There’s an audible shiver in his voice, and it drags itself across Opal’s backbone like flint striking metal, setting him on fire vertebra by vertebra. “To immortal gods touching me like I’m something to savour? You got me there, this has really never happened before.” 

“I was thinking more in a way of ‘other people’...” Opal stutters a little bit, thinking: _‘You’re not a human person yourself’,_ “...I mean, ‘people or any other beings with minds of their own touching your chest’. Is a male chest something not to touch? In your culture- in human culture?” 

That would be weird, he thinks. Why waste a perfectly good opportunity to enjoy a great company? Or perhaps being sensual is a rare freedom among people. He tries to imagine that, imagine people using their cleverly-built bodies merely for a simple act of procreation. Sacrilege, he decides, is what it is.

“The reason I’m asking this,” he continues, genuinely impressed that he doesn’t really feel irritated, or bothered, or frustrated because of the fact that his partner keeps stubbornly silent, “is because you look like you’re new to this and I can’t even understand whether you like it or not.” 

Here, have some encouragement, he thinks as he starts stroking Mgeliko’s nipples in short, lazy motions from side to side just with the pads of his thumbs. He knows that if that’s going to work, it still needs some time to induce any sort of reaction, so he keeps doing just that: straddling his lover’s thighs, caressing his nipples, feeling deliciously naughty and unmentionably lustful, balls pressed tightly into the crevice between Mgeliko’s legs, dick leaking and so heavily tense that it’s actually starting to give him a hard time. 

The reply that he gets is so quiet that Opal nearly misses it. 

“L’sgood,” Mgeliko says. 

“Oh?” Opal says, tilting his head. 

“I said, it feels good,” it comes louder this time. Whatever it was, Opal realizes, that made him act so damn shy, wasn’t actual pure embarrassment. Confusion, perhaps. Surprise. A turn-up. 

“Then why are you so bewildered?” he asks. Now that he’s feeling more approval than uncertainty he once again goes to cup Mgeliko’s breasts with his whole hands. _Squishy._ “What, have your lovers never touched you here? Never tried to make you feel good here?” He kneads into thick muscle some more. Apparently, Opal can’t get enough of feeling his lover up.

“I have no idea why you would need to know that,” Mgeliko says, fake dispraise and all, but his posture feels different now, much more relaxed. It’s in the way his back loosens up a bit, in the way he leans back into the pillows. He seems more open now, more ready for whatever’s yet to come. 

“Is that a no?” Opal says. He slides his hands down to the point where his body connects to his lover’s, and then finger-walks all the way back up from Mgeliko’s navel to his solar plexus. Both of his palms repeatedly find Mgeliko’s breasts and cover them whole, fingers spread wide and secure like sepals holding precious petals. He puts some soft pressure on the plumpness under his hands and squeezes it just a little bit in his fingers, then rubs the undersides of Mgeliko’s breasts with the soles of his palms. He can tell the skin here is already hot with his touch, already slightly more pink than the surrounding parts of Mgeliko’s body. 

“The answer would be ‘No, never’,” Mgeliko says, gravely, as if he’s expecting Opal to judge him. That’s when his own palms, wide and tanned and strong and uncharacteristically soft, the kind of palms Opal would like to feel all over his body as often as the fates allow, climb on top of Opal’s knees and start rubbing him up and down his thighs. This looks clumsy but feels spectacular, and Opal spreads his legs some more, opens up, keen and hungry and longing. Rubbing against his lover, Opal watches him with half-lidded eyes, looks at his chest, his belly, the wedge of his groin. He doesn’t get why that earlier remark came out so bitter: after all, Mgeliko surely _is_ something to savour, and Opal is determined to reap every delight from his engaging, inviting, wonderful body. 

“Such a shame,” he says. “Such a horrible shame. And definitely their loss.” 

It gets a bit easier from there, even though they kind of stop talking and both seem to be focusing more on the action, but it’s always nice to have some physical confirmation, some reciprocity. Opal keeps palming and massaging Mgeliko’s breasts, and his lover responses by caressing Opal’s legs. This way Opal can marvel some more at the shape under his touch, the volume and weight, the texture and the resilience, every little impulse under the skin, every twitch of each set of muscles. He runs his fingers through Mgeliko’s chest hair, nearly crooning at the tingly sensation. He also tilts his hips a little bit, trying to align his dick with Mgeliko’s with an intent to start rubbing them together, and even reaches down with his whole torso, placing a sloppy kiss directly on one of Mgeliko’s nipples. He feels his lover’s body arching towards the sensation immediately, so he deepens it: sucks the nipple in, then lets go and licks across it a couple of times. It’s hardened and flurried under his tongue, beady like a dark pearl. Opal feels separate wisps of chest hair sliding along and off his tongue as he lifts his face back up to take another look at Mgeliko. 

He looks... particularly smitten, a tad nervous perhaps, but also somehow much more aware. Before paying some much needed attention to their dicks, Opal flashes him a proud, cocky grin, and Mgeliko smiles back, his teeth still non-visible and his nose wrinkling sweetly.

As goes for the dicks, Opal only comes as far as thrusting forward with two introductory frictions when Mgeliko reaches for him with his hands, palms sliding all the way up his thighs to grab Opal’s sides, and says, “You know, maybe you could sit a bit higher up?”

That’s interesting, Opal thinks. It’s clear to him that if he shifts further, their dicks would not be aligned anymore, which - although different people are into different things, he knows just about that much - kind of blurs the very meaning of petting. 

Opal racks his brain, trying to imagine what his lover might be up to. 

“Why should I?” he says then, because even if patience makes up one’s merit, the world will have to tolerate him having none of that particular virtue. He wants some action, hot and hard and sweaty and, preferably, _as soon as possible._

“You seem to enjoy touching my chest,” Mgeliko says. It’s hard to tell if he’s taking a piss _(‘Chest’,_ he said?) or talking for real: there’s still that delicate, slightly awkward look on his face, and the further they go the more obvious it is to Opal that there is actually a certain lack of bedroom experience on his lover’s side. Mgeliko looks like he’s not done talking but at the same time doesn’t quite know how to put the things he wants to convey. He merely keeps tugging Opal towards himself though, just a little bit, in small, suggestive motions.

Opal watches him. His eyes travel between his own pelvis and Mgeliko’s chest.

Then, all at once, it suddenly strikes him. 

“Are you suggesting me to fuck your boobs?” Opal says, not even trying to hide how rapturous he feels. There it is, he thinks as he notices the color of Mgeliko’s cheeks darkening, as if the heat of the room is soaking in his skin. He still looks flustered as hell but, to his credit, he can still muster up an answer… well, kind of. 

“Pretty much,” he says and chuckles, quite nervously. “Yeah, something like that.” 

Ah, sweet skies. If he weren’t a god himself, after this all ends Opal would probably find himself praising every single known deity for sending him this marvellous boon. 

“I’m not the one to argue with a good thing,” he says, licking his own lips, feeling some terrific emotion rising up in him, glowing. “Now come here.”

“No, _you_ come here,” Mgeliko says and then places his hands behind the crooks of Opal’s knees and drags him, pretty stoutly, up his own torso, pulling him closer, just close enough to align Opal’s groin with the lower edge of his pectorals. For nearly the first time since their infamous battle Mgeliko’s exposing him to some kind of strong physical action, and the excitement, white-hot and hammering, that Opal feels rushing down to his cock is almost too much to take. He whines, a wordless sound, high and desperate, and seeks for some physical stability with his hands, placing them on top of Mgeliko’s collarbones. 

He ends up sitting with his back straight, surprisingly comfortably, his thighs on both sides of Mgeliko’s rib cage. His cock does really fit nicely into the cleavage between Mgeliko’s breasts. It’s a good angle and a good view, he notices: Mgeliko looking up at him, his hair disheveled, his face open and intimate, expression eager and gentle like never before. His mouth is still slightly open, and Opal really wishes he could kiss him straightaway, spit and tongue and all, but not even a promise of the sweetest kiss could make him dismount right now. 

There will be kisses, but later, he thinks as he starts rubbing against Mgeliko, hips going back and forth, frantically and with a good amount of rich skin-on-skin pressure. That feels wonderfully wild and wildly wonderful at once. Mgeliko keeps his hands on top of Opal’s thighs, lightly and tactfully, as Opal keeps using his own hands to balance on top of his lover’s body. Just when he thinks that there’s only one more thing that could make this even better, Mgeliko seems to have read his mind, for he takes his hands off Opal’s legs and places them on the sides of his own breasts instead. Then, still moving completely on his own accord, he squeezes his breasts together for Opal. That way Opal keeps thrusting between them, his cock sliding in and out as it gets tighter, hotter, more dewy, more _meaty,_ in a way. 

_“Fuck,”_ he says helplessly, then curses some more under his breath, then moans and mewls, heavily astonished by this sudden act of lover’s service. He rubs and he rubs and he rubs, back and forth, back and forth, speeding up, his balls slapping against Mgeliko’s torso, his breath frenetic and volatile in his throat, his voice coarse and his mind racing blissfully at an incredible velocity to his very own liquefaction point. 

When he comes - fast and furious and with a growl - his semen splatters on Mgeliko’s chest and neck like a peculiar string or pearls. Opal watches him, disorganized and shivering, his vision blurred. He moves almost reflexively when he backs off a little bit, dragging his softening sensibilized dick across his lover’s belly, and leans in, collecting the splashes of seed with his tongue. He does that quickly but thoroughly, working his way from the bottom up, sucking his come off from the hairs on Mgeliko’s chest, then nibbling the skin on his neck a bit. There happen to be some more drops on the edge of Mgeliko’s beard, so Opal makes sure to lick it all clean. His own taste is of no surprise to him, but when he pulls back he can see the way Mgeliko’s watching him with impossibly wide eyes. He seems petrified, although it’s not quite clear whether he’s that revolted or that aroused. To find this out, Opal eyes his lover and licks his own lips once again, mouth open wide to make sure Mgeliko can see the albescent coating of semen on his tongue. He relishes, he smacks his lips. Notices the way Mgeliko’s eyebrows lift closer together, the way his throat makes a clicking sound. Opal can’t help but smile, lopsidedly but sincere. 

I’ll take good care of you, he thinks, lovingly and with an uncharacteristic amount of affection. I’ll show you things and I’ll take you places and I’ll love you bodily till your mind’s all haze and hot steam. 

And thanks - whichever deity came up with this one - for the body language of humans. 

“I can-” Mgeliko starts, but Opal kind of senses where he might be going with that. His work cannot be half-assed. He will absolutely not let his lover think Opal has only been using him as an unnecessarily large tool for masturbation. 

“Shh,” Opal says as he slides all the way back until he can feel his lover’s cock with the crack of his ass. He spits on his palm then and presses Mgeliko’s cock vertically between his asscheeks with it, briefly stroking the tip. He leaves his hand flat on the shaft, making sure it’s pressed nice and firm, and then he starts jerking his hips, back arching, his spare hand reaching to rest between Mgeliko’s breasts (seems like this is his favorite spot now, huh?) It’s not the best solution, but something in the way this whole thing goes really makes Opal quite sure that this is not the last time they’re touching each other. So he’ll be creative and thoughtful, he’ll be resourceful and generous and caring, he’ll be whatever this forsaken soul wants him to be, but there will be time for all of that. The pressing matter at his hand today, both literally and figuratively, is making this incredible, perfect, breathtaking immortal human come for him. 

So he works, both with his hips and with his hand, and keeps stroking Mgeliko’s dick, keeps feeling it up with the cleft of his ass, keeps rubbing it and caressing it. He also wonders, occasionally, how this dick would feel inside of him, ramming him, hot and thick and palpitating. At that one Opal moans out loud; he’s a bit too relaxed and refractory right after his own orgasm, but something in the lower part of his belly does stir to life just a little bit. _Another time,_ he reminds himself, stroking and rubbing, already feeling so much slick wetness of pre-cum on his palm. It would’ve definitely been easier to just sit next to Mgeliko and jerk him off properly using a hand, but would that be as satisfying as feeling his hips buck fitfully, straddled by Opal’s legs, as he comes? 

Not a chance in the world, Opal thinks, feeling his lover shudder, the muscles of his abdomen twitching in such a fascinating way that Opal can’t really resist, can’t keep himself from sliding his palm down Mgeliko’s belly to feel that sweeping, ravenous movement under his fingertips. The shaft of Mgeliko’s dick is hot and throbbing against Opal’s other hand, and there are warm splashes of semen squirting onto his fingers and wrist. 

His lover doesn’t seem to be the vocal type, Opal notices: he’s mostly grunting and breathing heavily and he goes completely silent after he’s come, but maybe this is just the stiffness of their first forthright intimacy.

There are many things yet to show him, that’s for sure. Has he ever been sucked off? Ever been fucked, ever fucked another man? 

What a curious string of questions, just perfectly suitable for their long immortal lifetime. 

For a start, Opal lifts his hand up to inspect the traces of semen on it with mock studiousness. Then he opens his mouth and makes sure to stick his tongue out as far as it goes, and then he starts licking his hand clean, all the way watching the look on his lover’s face, and it’s a wonderful emotion on a face that is, all of sudden, so dear to him, and somehow, he just knows that some remarkable things are yet to come.


End file.
